


I Have Not Failed (I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work)

by WhatEvenAmI



Series: John Winchester's A+ parenting [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Babysitting, Bed-Wetting, Child Neglect, Child's Perspective, Childhood Trauma, Crying, Dead Mary Winchester, Demonic Possession, Demons, Devil's Trap, Disappointment, Drunk John Winchester, Exorcisms, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Winchesters, Nightmares, Pre-Series, Punishment, Sad Dean Winchester, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times John Winchester failed at parenting (and 1 time he did parenting right)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm sorry, I would rather not go on

This was supposed to be a _quick_ case.

Sometimes they could take a couple weeks. Dad hadn't been gone that long quite yet, but on the phone Dean had  _heard_ him say "Yeah, I can have that taken care of in a day or two." He  _had_ heard that. Sometimes he did get confused about stuff. He forgot which things had happened and which things were just from nightmares (was it his fault if suddenly things in real life were acting _just like_ nightmares?) but he was  _sure_ he'd heard Dad  _say_ , "A day or two". _  
_

Sometimes he still got scared that Dad wasn't _ever_ coming back, that was all. He tried not to be afraid but after a while he couldn't help it. Dad said he needed to learn to be tough and strong but he was still  _learning_ that.

And something really  _bad_ had gotten Mom and gotten their entire _house_ and almost Sammy too, and Dad went out to go fight those same bad things. If they took Mom they could take Dad, couldn't they? All it would take was one time he made a mistake. Then what would happen to him and Sammy?

And the thing was that they wouldn't even  _know._ They'd just keep waiting and waiting for _ever_ until Dean didn't know what.

Every day Dad didn't come back through the door Dean had to try harder not to think about it. Sometimes he couldn't help staring out the window or crying from being scared, but Sammy was too little to know.

Sammy, though. Dean needed Dad back because of Sammy. Dad had left him with piles of quarters; he could do the laundry, and if the food ran out he could find a vending machine. But Sammy was still mostly eating just baby formula, and Dean didn't know how to get more of that when it ran out. Sammy needed more diapers, too. And always, always, always someone to pay attention to him. Especially now that he was learning to walk and could get himself in trouble.

Dean didn't mind having to pay attention to Sammy because he mostly liked playing with his brother and it kept his mind off of being scared. He was the big brother, so a lot of times it felt like he was being brave for both of them.

He was helping Sammy walk now, his brother's tiny hand grasping his. They were playing explorers, having adventures all around the room. Well, Dean was playing explorers. Sammy was too little to understand, so Dean was just having Sammy play what he wanted. So far they'd climbed Mount Everest (their bed, piled up with all the pillows), gone on cave expeditions (behind the couch) and fought sharks and octopuses in the ocean (bathtub; probably not allowed, but Dad wasn't here to say no so Dean would play how he wanted). 

Sammy also had a ball that Dean could roll around for him to chase, but last time he'd fallen on his face and cried and someone had come and knocked on the door. Dean had done what Dad said to do. He ran water in the shower and told the people that their Dad was in the bathroom. Still, it made him a little nervous, talking to the strangers. A _lot_ nervous, actually. They asked  _lots_ of questions. Dean had been worried he wouldn't be able to give the right answers. He was still waiting to see if there'd be trouble from that. 

It was getting late, and Sammy was beginning to fall asleep right on the floor. Dean clumsily picked him up (he was getting so much _heavier_ every day) and dropped him into the folding crib. Sammy began to wail in protest, so Dean climbed in with him and rolled the ball around to trick him into thinking this was just more playtime. Someday Sammy would figure it out, but for now, it worked. Getting him to go to sleep could be pretty difficult. He always wanted to play.

Dean thought about letting him just stay up so he wouldn't have to be alone and scared. But if you let Sammy stay up too late, he got cranky and  _screamed._   _All the time._

Dean climbed up into his own bed, hoping that his worries wouldn't seep into his dreams again (or worse, the fire, he _hated_ those dreams). He was just starting to drift when he heard the familiar sequence of sounds: the door opening and closing, Dad's backpack being dropped into a chair.. He was relieved, but also a little bit mad and maybe just a tiny bit scared still.

"Where were you?" He asked. He maybe sounded a little accusing even if he didn't mean to.

"On a case, you know that."

"But you said this case was gonna be a couple days."

"I got busy. Oh, I also got us some more food and supplies for Sammy."

Dean thought about asking Dad what had gotten him busy, if another case had come up or what. But Dad didn't like questions and Dean didn't like when Dad was unhappy. And Dad unhappy a lot more than he used to be, anyway. So Dean just said, "That's good, cause we were almost out."

Dad didn't want to talk tonight; he was tired. Lots of hard work did that, but Dean kind of wished Dad would just  _talk_ to him like he used to. Instead, Dad got into bed without changing his clothes or brushing his teeth and then he went right to sleep.

Even though Dean had felt kind of sleepy a while ago, he was awake now and thinking. He was thinking about how him and Dad used to go outside and throw a ball back and forth, and how they'd take walks and Dad let him push Sammy in the stroller as long as he remembered to be careful. And Dad used to tell him all kinds of stories before bed, or they'd eat at the table and just talk about stuff.

None of that happened anymore, like, pretty much never. Sammy played with him but that wasn't the same at all.

Dean knew Dad was keeping them safe and actually trying to keep the whole world safe from the bad things, and that was important and he  _was_ really grateful to still have Dad. 

It was just that a lot of the time Dean still really missed Mom and home and the life that they used to have. He missed it a  _lot_ , so hard that sometimes it just made him extra sad and he couldn't help it.

But the thing was, it felt like Dad didn't always want to  _be_ their Dad, not anymore. Because Dean felt like he was missing Dad all the time too, even though right now Dad was  _here._

"Hey, Dad?" He tried quietly, but there were already snores coming from the other bed.


	2. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad warned Sam and Dean that demonic possession could get really iffy. And Sam had been scared.
> 
> But Dad hadn't prepared him for this.

Dad had warned them that demonic possession could get really iffy.

"I wouldn't be taking either of you near this thing," he'd said, "It could rip you to pieces with _one_ hand, and me, too.But this is something you need to see. You've gotta know how to recognize a demon. And like I said, these things are strong as hell. You don't fight 'em, you learn how to stop 'em."

And he'd shown them. They'd practiced lining the hotel room with salt. Dad had made them recite exorcisms for hours (none of which Sammy remembered, and he doubted Dean did either. It had been hard to memorize, Dean had pointed out, because no one actually knew Latin. It just sounded like they were chanting nonsense.) They'd drawn Devil's Traps on napkins, both of them messing it up again and again.

Finally Dean had had a better idea, and now they each had a little picture of a Devil's Trap so they wouldn't forget. Dad had also given Dean some salt, just in case.

All the preparation had done what Dad had probably wanted in the first place and scared the hell out of Sammy, so that he could barely make himself get in the car. It was easier to do it because Dean was getting in too. Sammy wasn't sure if his brother actually wasn't nervous at all or if he was just pretending not to be. Dean was ten and he always acted like he wasn't scared of anything. But still, Sammy had heard too much about demons to believe that anyone could just go fight them and feel  _nothing._

After all, these things scared  _Dad._

He warned them about one more thing once the car was moving. 

"When a demon's possessing a person, the person is still in their body," he'd explained, "And they can still die. And exorcisms can get pretty intense. The vessel doesn't always survive. It ain't pretty, but you've both seen worse."

Sammy had seen dead bodies before, and some of them were really nasty and mangled. Monsters did that to people. But he hadn't ever actually seen a person _die_. He shifted uncomfortably in the backseat and turned his eyes up to the dark sky.

He and Dean would be strong and brave and they would learn from this, just like always. Dad had warned him, and now he was prepared.

And it wasn't like he'd even have to do anything. Dad had told them that all the stuff they'd practice was just in case, that they weren't to go near the demon if it could be avoided. Dad just wanted them to hide and watch.

"This bastard's killed six host bodies, that's just in the time I've been  _on_ this case, plus a whole bunch of bystanders. And the cops don't know what the hell's going on, so I've been trying to get the word out to people that the next time they think someone's acting off, they get in touch with me. And luckily," he continued as he parked the car, "This lady did. She thinks it's in her husband. Now, I've got to work fast. He gets off a late shift at work. We've got to get him right as he comes in the door."

And they had to do it now, because this demon had a thing with noon. Each day at noon, another person caused a big accident that got a lot of people killed. Dad said the town had had a lot of damage over the past couple weeks, and lots of people had died. If they waited even one more day, the demon would do it again and then find another host body. 

They had to trudge up a long driveway, shivering and pulling their jackets tighter. They didn't park right in front of the house so that the demon wouldn't know anyone else was home. It took too many cold footsteps before the house was in sight, but when he finally saw it, Sammy's eyes went a little wide. It was big and so _pretty_ , all snowy and lit up with Christmas lights. Whenever Sammy went on a case like this, he wondered what the peoples' lives were like, the ones who lived in these houses. Dean said they had, once, but Sammy couldn't remember the time before they started hunting. 

The wife, the lady who had called Dad, met them at the door, whispering for them to try not to wake up the kids sleeping upstairs. She was maybe forty, a little chubby and wearing a blue nightgown. She looked scared but really nice and again Sammy wondered what it would be like to live in a home like this one. And then he remembered that this was why hunting was important. To save people like this.

Dad briefly introduced the woman to him and Dean, then ushered them into the hall. There was a polished wood staircase and Dad pointed to it. "Dean, Sammy, go upstairs and watch from there. When Mr. Raynes comes home, get out of sight. Put down a salt line up there too."

From their place at the top of the stairs, they watched Dad examine the floor in the hall. It was all hardwood, and Sammy knew that was bad. Dad preferred to hide a Devil's Trap under carpets. He could maybe put one on the ceiling, but the ceiling in the hall was high. There was probably no time for Dad to get up there.

Dad knelt to pull up the welcome mat by the door. The woman made a sound of protest and moved forward a little as he painted a Devil's Trap on her floor, but he ignored it and she didn't interfere. 

"Helen," he muttered, not looking up from his work, "What are you usually doing when Donald gets home from work?"

"I'm asleep by then, most nights."

"Asleep, upstairs?"

"Yeah." 

"Then I need you to be up there when he walks in the door. Act normal. If this ain't a demon, he can just walk right in. But if he is possessed," Dad tapped in the middle of the completed Devil's Trap, "This'll stop him in his tracks." He flopped the welcome mat back into place, hiding the painted sign. Then he pulled out the bag of salt and started lining the hall. 

A tiny voice from behind them made both boys jump. "Mommy, what's happening?" 

A little girl stood behind them, about Sammy's age, with a mess of curls and a Barbie nightgown. She clutched a toy airplane tightly in her hands, staring nervously at Sammy and Dean. Behind her, two curly-headed boys were emerging from a doorway, rubbing their eyes.

"Kids!" The woman breathed, rushing up the stairs, "All of you, get back in bed-"

From outside came the thump of feet on the front porch. The woman urgently shushed her children, pulling them back into the shadows. Sam and Dean retreated on the other side of the stairs, peering through the railing. Dad was out of sight. Sammy hadn't seen where he'd gone. If this wasn't a demon, the Winchesters would sneak out of the house.

The man who came through the door didn't look like a demon at all. He had on square glasses and a thick jacket and a hat with a big puffball. If they'd passed him on the street, he and Dean would have laughed at that hat. Neither boy was laughing now.

The door slammed shut and this was the moment of truth. Sammy heard Dean exhale and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Unzipping his jacket, the man frowned. Made to move forward. And stopped. "What the hell-"

It wasn't the man, then. It was the demon.

"Helen!"

"Why are we hiding from Daddy?" The girl asked in a whisper that still probably carried down the stairs. 

"Shh!" Helen's eyes were wide.

Dad was coming back down the hall.

" _Winchester"_ the thing  _hissed_ , and the man's kind-looking face twisted into a snarl. Helen gasped, and the girl whimpered and hugged her airplane. One of the boys tried to push past Helen toward the stairs. Dean grabbed him around the middle and dragged him back. "Don't!"

The boy was struggling, trying to elbow Dean away from him, and then he went limp. Sam looked back to the demon and saw why. The man's eyes had gone completely black. It wasn't really the creepiest thing Sammy had  _ever_ seen, but he did feel a bit disturbed. And this was a man he didn't even know. Sammy couldn't imagine how freaked out he'd feel if he saw Dad's eyes go like that.

Dad was speaking now, in a low and serious voice, but calm, the calmest Sammy had ever heard him. He recognized the opening of the exorcism. _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."_

And the demon  _howled._

Except it wasn't just a yell. Rattling tremors ran through the whole house, and Sammy  _felt_ the force of it all the way from where he was standing, threatening to collapse his lungs. He and Dean and the boy cringed against each other, and Helen clutched her other two children tightly. Dad was thrown back a few feet, landing hard on the floor. Sammy's heart missed a beat, but Dad's tone didn't even falter. He kept right on over the demon's cry.

_"...omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio..."_

The man's body was shaking as the demon screamed. Waves of powerful energy swept through them all. The children were coughing through their tears, and Dad was pressed back against the wall, chanting through gritted teeth. Sammy held his breath, determined to tough out the shockwaves. He felt very glad that he and Dean were up  _here_ and not down there with  _it._

The boy who'd tried to run was shrieking now, "Dad, oh my God, _Dad_!"

"It's not your Dad!" Dean was yelling, "I'm sorry, it's not your Dad!"

The boy didn't seem to understand. " _Dad..."_

_"...Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."_

The man's body was really  _shaking_ , though, like it was going to shake itself all  _apart_ , and Sammy remembered that Dad had warned them about how the vessels often didn't survive.

Sammy had been prepared for that, or he thought he had been, but the man's whole  _family_ was here watching this right now and Sammy didn't know how to warn them. He wanted to make Dad stop, but the creature's power was steadily surging through them all. He didn't dare break Dad's concentration now.

And suddenly the man's head was thrown back and his glasses went flying. A cloud of dark black smoke was shooting out of his mouth and swirling violently upward. Sammy knew the sound of breaking bones, knew the man's neck had snapped. It was over.

Sure enough, once the black cloud was fully out, the body crumpled on the floor.

 _"Don..._ " Helen whimpered. Her son was screaming and the girl had her curly head buried in her mother's nightgown. Dean was trying to make the other boy look away from the scene below.

Dad was chanting faster now as the thing gained momentum, trying to stop it before it could take the whole building down. 

_"Benedictus Deus. Gloria Patri."_

The whirling cloud spiraled down through the floor as though something from below had vacuumed it away. In the place where it had gone the wood was black and burned. The man's body, still draped in his jacket and wearing the puffball hat, lay on the floor with empty eyes.

"It's over," Dad announced dully, "It's gone."

"Don?" Helen whispered desperately. Dean knew, he was trying to catch her arm, "Mrs. Raynes, I'm sorry..."

But she was  _wailing_  and Sammy had never heard another human being make that noise in his whole life. He was frozen, watching the children begin to scream. Without looking at Dean he knew that his brother was seeing their old home burning to the ground.

He didn't realize he was already crying until the sobs started choking him up.

"You didn't say it would  _kill him!_ " Helen's voice rose, bordering on hysterics, "You didn't say, you didn't tell me...I never... _fix it! John! Fix him!"_ Whipped up by her tone and by the sight of their father's broken body, the children were wailing. Shaking so hard he could barely stand, Sammy reached for Dean, found his arm, and clung on.

"Sam, Dean, you two get back to the car  _now._ And _stay_ there." Dad said, "Neighbors probably called the cops. Let me deal with this _."_  

Dean was guiding him down the stairs. Sammy was trying to keep up but his legs wouldn't cooperate and he couldn't stop shaking and sobbing. All he could see were those screaming kids and the woman who'd thought they could fix it. They were hunters and they were supposed to be the good guys, but what they'd done tonight had not been good at all. It had been-

All his life Dad had taught them how to grow up into hunters and that's what Sammy was going to be, but now he didn't know _what_ to think. About _anything._  It was like that stupid demon's screaming energy hadn't just shaken up his body but his whole entire  _life._

All Sammy wanted was to get out of that house with its dead body, its screams and anger and sadness. But it felt wrong to do _this_ and then leave, and anyway, his stupid body wouldn't work with him. Dad was telling him to _get out, Sammy, move your ass, get out_ , but Sammy couldn't. 

When Dean realized, he knelt down in front of him. Years ago Dean had given him enough piggyback rides for him to understand. He slumped against his brother and wrapped his arms around his neck. Dean got hold of his legs, rose, staggered a little, but found his balance. Then they were moving out into the cold night, leaving the body and the wailing and the big house with the pretty lights behind them.

"Dean," He managed between shuddering sobs that wouldn't stop, "I"m s-sorry, I, I couldn't-"

"Sammy, it's okay," Dean said in a subdued tone, "I get it."

The car was freezing cold and they didn't have the keys, so they lay across the backseat wrapped together in sweatshirts and jackets, watching as the flashing police lights began to illuminate the windows. This would be Sammy's only chance to talk to Dean alone, but he couldn't make himself form the right words yet. He wasn't sure what he even wanted to say. He just held onto Dean's shirt and waited until his body began to feel right again.

"Sammy," murmured Dean, "It's gonna be okay."

For the first time in his life he doubted his big brother's words.

It took forever for Dad to come back to the car, so long that the boys had begun to wonder if the police had arrested him. But then he was there, climbing in without a word of explanation, just saying, "We are leaving this town _tonight_."

Sammy was absolutely fine with that. He never ever wanted to come back here.

He'd thought he was prepared for demons, but Dad hadn't prepared him for _this_. 

And speaking of Dad, Sammy doesn't know when he's going to get in trouble, but it is coming. He was weak, crying on the job, and he'd disobeyed an order from Dad again and again. And this time it could have gotten him and Dean into trouble with the police. He couldn't help it, but he knew Dad wasn't going to be happy that explanation.

Sure enough, after a moment Dad ordered, "Sammy, pull yourself together and tell me what exactly happened just there."

Dean said stuff like that too sometimes, but when he did, his tone was forgiving and helpful. Dad's wasn't.

"I didn't mean to," Sammy wrapped his jacket tighter around himself and sniffled, failing to stop a flood of tears from clogging up his voice, "I'm _sorry_ , I _couldn't_."

"Pull it together, Sammy, and listen to me." Sammy wiped his eyes with his hand and tried to obey, his breath jerking with the effort of holding it back."

"You're gonna toughen up and get used to this. You've gotta keep it together no matter _what_ happens. Else you'll be putting yourself in danger, and everyone else as well." His eyes held Sammy's in the rearview mirror. "Not a very good hunter when you do that."

"I can't _be_ a hunter!" Sammy burst out in a new wave of sobs, "I, I, I can't  _do_ this-"

"You _can_ do it," Dad's tone grew fierce, "But not if you keep acting like this! Dammit, Sammy, you can do _better_ than that. I've  _seen_ you do better than that. And I better _see_ you doing better _next_ time!"

Sammy didn't want to think about there ever being a _next time_ for something like this. Or any other hunting trip. Or being a hunter at all. Not if this was what it meant.

"Sam, for God's sake, you're a Winchester. You _can_ do this, and you will, and you'll get yourself  _together. Now."_

Sammy really tried to obey. He held his breath, and this time he did manage to stop crying. And he stopped talking. But he didn't stop  _thinking_ for a long, long time.

It would be a longer time before he stopped hearing the events of that night in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a Mitch Albom quote. "The Five People You Meet in Heaven" is one of my favorite books.
> 
> If you're wondering why I switch between referring to Sam as "Sammy" and "Sam", I feel like there was probably some point in his life when he started thinking of himself as "Sam", but kept referring to himself as "Sammy" just because Dean did and he was used to it.
> 
> The exorcism I used in this chapter, as well as most of the information on demons, is based on what was shown in 1x04. If I wrote anything inaccurately, please let me know.


	3. No one fights dirtier or more brutally than blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a normal family, a child experiencing a problem receives sympathy and help. But problems are an inconvenience, and John can't have inconveniences. He has become increasingly uncaring about the effects the hunting life has on the boys.
> 
> And when he's been drinking heavily, he can be downright cruel.

Dad was pretty drunk.

That was a problem, because it put him in a strange way. Dean couldn't understand it very well.  _He'd_ never been drunk. The only way he'd been able to explain it to himself was that sometimes when you got frustrated, you just wanted to do bad things.

That was something he got, because as Sammy was coming out of babyhood he acted like a little brat more and more often. He was three now and he'd never been this difficult to deal with. Sometimes Dean just wanted to _smack_ him, or shove him over. He never _would_ , he just couldn't help _thinking_ it sometimes.

So the best way Dean could explain it was that when Dad was drunk, he'd actually _do_ those bad things that usually you were only _tempted_ to do.

Dad had been out tonight, so Dean hadn't worried about this. But Dad must have finished the case and gone to a bar or something, then come back to the motel drunk.

Dean had watched enough TV to know what happened at bars. Sometimes, though he tried not to, he couldn't help thinking maybe  _that's_ what took Dad so long. Maybe he found women and went home with them. TV wasn't clear on exactly what happened after that, except that the man and the woman usually got in a bed together and kind of moved around a lot under the blankets. But Dean didn't like to think about Dad doing anything like that.

He usually told himself that Dad  _wouldn't._ Dad had loved Mom and he loved her a lot _still_ , so much that he couldn't stop looking for the bad thing that killed her. So he would never want to do that, right?

Dean knew better than to ask.

Mom. She'd been in his dream tonight. It was funny, because Dean had only been four when their life had gone up in flames. That meant he was getting kind of hazy on some of the details by now. He wasn't exactly sure how the hallway had been set up, not anymore. He wasn't entirely clear on what his room had looked like. Or how mother's voice had sounded. He tried to remember, but everything in his mind kept changing and fading.

Except at night. In his dreams, everything was vivid and clear. It was like that night had burned itself right into Dean's brain, but in a place he could only reach while sleeping. Long after he'd forgotten, his dreams would remember perfectly.

This dream had been about the fire again. He'd been running through the hall clinging tightly to the heavy bundle of blankets. He didn't think he was going to make it out of the house in time, but there was no way he was putting the baby down. At that thought he squeezed even tighter. The heat taunted him, scorching the air at his back. 

Then the dream got a little different from what really happened. They were outside the house, and a burning creature took Mom's shape, coming after them in a cloud of smoke. Dad was trying to kill it, to protect them, but every time he swung his blade, Mom's face took on a terrified and pleading look, and Dad lowered his weapon. 

Dean must have been crying out in his sleep, because Dad, the real Dad, had shaken him awake, hissing Dean's name in the tone of voice that let Dean know he was about as good and drunk as he ever got.

And that was going to be a _problem_ , Dean realized, because his legs were cold and soaking wet. Without drinking, Dad would've still gotten frustrated with him, but every so often, he'd get  _really_ drunk and then he'd come up with a punishment that was supposed to teach Dean a lesson.

Dean wouldn't have even minded it if the lessons had actually sunk in, but nothing he or Dad had tried was making this stop. It was all so  _frustrating_ and it just wasn't  _fair._

But he already knew better than to use the word  _unfair_ in front of Dad. He'd heard plenty of speeches on life and how  _fair_ it would be. He'd heard just as many speeches about how much good it would do to complain about it. So he looked down at the wet patch and waited.

"Dean," Dad said. Without having to be told, Dean turned to look him in the eye. That was what Dad always wanted.

"I don't want to have to deal with this. Not tonight and not anymore. You made this mess and you are going to have to sit in it all night, and in the morning, you'll clean it up. That's the thing about making messes, I want you to learn that." Dean nodded without complaint. This punishment wouldn't result in him being hurt or humiliated. This, he could deal with, and it meant that Dad was going to go to bed and leave him alone about it.

Dad scooped up Sammy and brought him into the other bed. Within seconds, both were deeply asleep. Dean lay awake in the glow of the muted TV, trying to shake off his humiliation and the lingering shaky feeling left by his nightmare. It was fading, but he could still see Mom's flaming face turning hurt and scared. It made his heart squeeze up. 

He was cold and getting colder. He shifted, but the wet pants clung and he couldn't get comfortable like this. More unpleasant was the itch that was beginning to creep over his skin, all down his legs. He was beginning to understand what Dad had meant about him learning lessons this way. He would have gladly done this all night if he had thought the lesson would actually change the part of him that kept letting this happen, but he knew it was useless. This wouldn't really fix anything. This was just Dad getting his mad out while he was drunk. 

Dean squirmed again. Lying in the wet patch was beginning to feel really unpleasant. At a time like this he would usually just think about other things and let that absorb him, like whatever TV show he'd watched that night, or learning how to work on the car, or playing explorers with Sammy. Sometimes he'd come up with stories to tell his brother. Other times the stories he told were true. 

But right now all he could think about was the dream, Mom's flaming face, and that felt even more wrong than real life did.

Dean would never talk to anyone about his dreams. He didn't want anyone to know how much they scared him, because they were just dreams and the fear made him feel stupid and weak. He didn't like feeling like that. He wanted to be sharp and strong and brave. A good hunter had to be.

But sometimes he wanted to talk to Dad because he was used to Dad protecting him from things that scared him. But those, he reminded himself, were things that he had an actual reason to be scared of. Dreams were stupid, they weren't _real_.

And Dean would never ever mention this one to Dad anyway, this one about Mom and her flaming body and her fear. 

Still feeling a little shaky and maybe kind of sick to his stomach, Dean finally drifted off into half-sleep to wait out the night.


	4. Their souls the heaviest responsibility He will place in your hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters had been hunters since Sam can remember. And if Sam wanted to be something else, it was hard for him to imagine what that might be.
> 
> And John Winchester was never really great at parental "follow your dreams" speeches.

Sam had to be careful when he practiced with the weapons.

It wasn't because he might hurt himself, as so many people seemed to think. _T_ _hat_ waswhere the problem lay. People saw a nine-year-old with a gun, even a small one, and they freaked out. They even reacted if he only had a blade in hand, and he'd known how to use those ever since he was old enough to unfold Dean's Swiss Army knife.

He could use a weapon better than most adults would know how to  _hold_ one. He was one of the people trying to  _protect_ their dumb asses, Sam thought angrily, but how was he supposed to  _do_ it if he couldn't get any  _practice?_

Monsters got all the practice they needed. Their bodies were their weapons; their very lifestyle did the killing. So you had to be as good as they were; you had to  _work_ at it.

Luckily, this university was located in rural Maine. It was comprised of a few different campuses divided by patches of thick forest. Dean said that was probably useful to the students who wanted to get drunk and smoke grass. But right now it was useful to the two Winchester boys. Dean was trying to teach Sam how to use one of the bigger hunting knives. There were lots of things that had to be killed by beheading. You couldn't do  _that_ with a Swiss Army knife.

"Swing as  _hard_ as you can," Dean panted, scrambling around a tree trunk. They'd been sparring, trying to work up the feeling of an actual fight. Both boys were scratched, bruised, and dirty. Sam's shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He swung his stick as hard as he could manage while still keeping a grip on the end. He was pretending he was actually hunting, and with his brother there urging him on it almost felt real.

Dean dodged him easily. "Harder and faster. You're trying to get all the way through, you want to do it in one swing." He lunged at Sam, who caught him with the stick this time. 

"Ow! Good. Now swing that way with the knife. Try and get a feel for it."

Dean stepped back and coached Sam through some practice swings; how to move his feet, what to do with his shoulders. The knife was a little heavier than the stick had been, but Sam quickly adjusted and soon Dean's shouts of advice turned to approval.

Dad's biggest knife, now  _that_ thing was heavy. Every so often he let the boys hold it; by the weight alone, Sam knew he would not be swinging  _that around_  for a while. Even Dean struggled with the heft of the big blade. Dean was quickly catching up to Dad in height, his body broadening out, but he was still fairly skinny. Sam hadn't bothered to hold back laughter when Dean's attempted swing almost tipped him over.

" _Dean! Sammy!"_

From some distance away, Dad's voice echoed through the trees. 

"Coming!" Dean hollered back. He took the knife from Sam's hands, handling it like a pro. Sam admired the ease with which Dean flipped the blade down into his pocket. 

"Race you!" he burst out impulsively, shoving past Dean and pounding through the sunlit forest. There was no point, really. Dean was almost a foot taller than him. Sure enough, he soon heard approaching footsteps, and had to duck out of the way to avoid Dean running him into the dirt. He lost his speed, and jogged the rest of the way.

Dad was leaning against the car. "Right, so the vics were taking all kinds of different classes, but every one of them had a Professor Simons for one class or another. He's the first guy we want to look into. It's not gonna be possible to keep tabs on all his students, so I want to get this done quickly."

That was often the case. The longer they waited to hunt down a monster, the higher the body count could get. Waiting also increased the chances that the monster would catch on to them.

"Okay. So what are we gonna do about food? I'm starving." Recently Dean always said he was starving. In the past year he'd started eating more than even Dad could.

"Dining hall. Once you pay, it's all-you-can-eat. I figure we can sneak out some food and eat free the next couple of days."

"Free food is good food," Dean agreed.

The path to the dining hall took them down a big hill, which gave Sam a good vantage point to look over the place. It seemed gorgeous and peaceful; bright sunlight over rolling hills, a scattering of old-fashioned granite buildings. Traveling as much as they did, Sam didn't often get too attached to one place or another, but this one...Sam knew that college students lived at the school, and thought he wouldn't mind coming back to live here, someday.

The dining hall was comparatively ugly, low and brick and rectangular with chipped red paint on the doors. On the inside, however, was a large sunlit room filled with food. It looked nice and smelled better. 

And the food was fairly decent, too, better than they usually ate. Sam piled a plate with ham and steamed broccoli, onions and eggs. Dean had to make a couple trips to bring back several armfuls of plates.

"If you can eat all that, I will be impressed," Dad told Dean, "But you better not puke in the car."

Dean just grinned and shoved half a bagel into his mouth.

At first, Sam was focused mainly on eating. Dean went up for seconds and thirds, carefully slipping bagels and apples and sandwiches into Dad's bag each time. When Sam was full, he rose to help his brother sneak as much food as possible from the dining hall. That's when he took notice of the people. 

There was a thin, pale girl sitting on a windowsill with a thick book propped up on her knees. Every so often she took a small bite of her sandwich or lazily turned the page. A tall boy sat at at a table, scribbling in a notebook, his face set in a deeply concentrated frown. A group of people sat around a big table, flipping through papers and talking and drinking coffee.

Sam hadn't really thought about it before, but he knew that people went to college to learn things. It was basically just school. And Sam liked school.

Well, he liked the reading and writing parts of school. And sometimes there were clubs. He liked those, too. This college looked like it had all the good things Sam liked about school, without any of the bad.

He thought again of living on the grounds with the rolling sunlit hills. 

He hadn't really given much thought to college before now, but how did you end up  _going_ there? Sam didn't know.

He wouldn't mind if he ended up here someday. He just wasn't sure how that might happen.

Bagel in hand, he returned to the table.

"Dad?" Dad was looking over a newspaper, probably combing through the details of the case again. "How do you...if I wanted to go to this college, how could I?"

"What would you want to go _here_ for?"

Sam waited with his heart sinking a little.

"People go to college so they can get jobs. The kind of jobs _we_ don't have, because we move around too much to keep them."

"What kind of jobs?" Sam asked.

"Some of 'em will be doctors, or lawyers, some of them'll own companies. And I guarantee you  _none_ of them will be hunters."

Sam didn't know anything about those jobs, not really, except from what he'd seen on TV. He'd figured out by now that TV wasn't always right. He knew better than to ask, though.

"There's no point in college, Sammy. And we can't afford it anyway."

There was something small shutting down inside him. It had been stupid to hope. He didn't even know anything  _about_ college. Or jobs. Not the kind of jobs you went to college for, so it was _stupid_ to feel like maybe he wanted to cry a little. Like he'd _lost_ something.

Still, even if it was stupid, he didn't say anything in agreement with Dad. And he didn't stop, couldn't stop, thinking of ways to make what Dad had said not be true.

It wasn't like he really thought he was going to come live here or anything. Or study a job like being a doctor. He just kind of wanted it to at least be _possible_.


	5. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester drank more often than he should have. Sam and Dean saw it more often than they should have. They didn't understand why he drank. It was inevitable that they'd become curious.

Lately, Dean was always hungry.

Not starving-hungry, not like all those times he'd skipped meals because they'd run out of food and Sammy needed to eat. It was more of a vaguely hollow feeling that compelled him to keep a steady stream of food going down his throat. It just never seemed to _stop._  

Dean had thought that Dad would be mad when he'd finished off an entire box of Lucky Charms the day before. But Dad had just looked impressed and said "Guess you're growing," and this morning, though Dad had been gone, he'd left a note attached to a new box of cereal.

Now, for dinner, Dean was polishing off the last of the box. Normally Sammy would be complaining that he hadn't gotten any, but lately he seemed content to watch with raised eyebrows as his brother fed his newly insatiable appetite.

Sammy was rummaging around in one of the trunks for something else to eat. Dean would have to remember to find some money for a grocery run at some point.

The clink of the bottle drew his attention because Dad didn't often leave it behind, not anymore. Sammy held it up and shook it, the contents swishing around.

"Nothing left but this," he said glumly.

Dean slid the cereal box across the floor. "You can have the last of that. I'll go find a vending machine later."

"Thanks." Sammy put the bottle aside in favor of the Lucky Charms. "Why does Dad even drink that stuff? I've heard it's gross."

"I don't know, Sammy." Dean doesn't want to get into Dad's increasingly worrisome penchant for those bottles.

"Huh," Sammy poked at the booze, "I dare you to drink some."

"Dad'll be mad," Dean said. Dad didn't like either of the boys touching those bottles; by now they both knew not to.

"I double-dare you. Just a sip. I wanna know if it's as gross as I heard."

Dean was just a bit curious, too. "Fine. Give it."

Sam poured the last of the cereal down his throat before bringing the bottle over. Dean nervously unscrewed the cap and sniffed it, then immediately wrinkled his face. It smelled like gasoline, and like the stuff they used to disinfect cuts and scrapes. Was it possible to actually  _drink_ stuff like that?

He tilted the bottle to his lips and  _God_ it was  _nasty._ He'd heard it burned, but that wasn't exactly the right word. It  _stung._ And _then_ it burned. But Sammy was watching, so Dean kept a straight face and swallowed as quickly as possible. Then, for good measure, he took another burning gulp, which was more like self-punishment than anything. He wiggled his tongue, trying to work the taste out of his mouth.

Sammy was watching intently. "What's it taste like? Do you feel drunk?"

"Nah, not really. It just tastes gross." He wasn't sure what he was trying to prove, or accomplish, when he raised the bottle back to his lips. Only after he'd gotten down the next searing swallow did he entertain the thought.  _Drunk._ He'd seen it on TV, where drinking made people happy. He'd seen it with Dad, which really wasn't all that happy. It wasn't until Sammy had said it, but now Dean kind of wanted to know what it felt like to be drunk. Just a  _little._ Just to  _see._

"I wanna know how it tastes." Sam was insisting, "Do you dare me to drink some?"

Dean hesitated. Sammy was only nine. He really shouldn't. But just a little, just so he'd know how nasty it was. A little wouldn't hurt him, right? In Catholic churches, Dean remembered, they gave younger kids wine. So it should be okay, he thought, if Sammy just had a sip.

"Only a little," Dean instructed, handing over the bottle. 

He probably should have warned Sammy, because he tried to drink it like you'd drink a glass of juice. A couple sips in, the taste hit, and his face screwed up. "Ugh! That's so, so bad, it actually hurts!" Sammy pushed the bottle aside.

"Wimp," Dean smirked, taking the bottle again just to prove a point. But he swallowed his sip as fast as possible so he wouldn't taste it. He wasn't sure if that was enough to make him feel drunk. Maybe later he'd have a little more.

"Hang on..." Sammy froze. "I think my stomach didn't like that."

"You gonna puke?" Dean asked nervously. What if he'd made Sammy really sick?

Five seconds later, Dean was rubbing Sammy's back as he heaved up Lucky Charm mush into the motel toilet.

When Sammy finally sat back on the tile floor, wiping his mouth, Dean was waiting with a cup of water, hoping that the alcohol hadn't made Sammy seriously ill. He was already kicking himself for letting his brother drink it. He should have known better than that. 

"I'm okay," Sammy muttered without Dean having to ask, rinsing out his mouth, "My stomach just really did not like that,"

"Yeah, I think we're done with that bottle for tonight."

Dean made Sammy lay down after that. He spent the next hour sitting in the bed next to his brother, examining the state of his own perception. Was it just him or was he...hearing things a little different? He thought maybe his head felt kind of heavy...but light at the same time. Mostly he just felt sleepy.

Honestly, he could have just been imagining it. But that made him want to find out.

And Sammy had dozed off beside him, so...

Dean slipped out of the bed and retrieved the bottle from the trunk. He braced himself, but there was no way he could be prepared for that taste. Still, he pushed through another few sips. That would have to be enough, he thought. Already the level of liquid in the bottle was visibly lower, but Dad might not notice that. Dean knew he shouldn't push it. He was already a little afraid of what Dad would do if he did notice the depleted bottle. He stashed it in its usual spot in Dad's trunk, then went to brush his teeth.

The change occurred gradually. It wasn't until his head was swimming a little that he realized that he was, in fact, a bit drunk.

Was he moving like Dad did after he'd had too much? Dean took a couple of practice steps to see, but he couldn't tell. In fact, the only thing he could tell was that his sleepiness was now a tangible thing. His head felt almost heavy. He overcompensated by moving too deliberately, too carefully. It was no exaggeration to say that he literally fell into bed. He was pulled down into deep sleep before he had time to pull up the covers.

There were no dreams, there was no restlessness, no nightmares, none of the tension that seemed to follow Dean even in slumber. Just a deep, dark, quiet place that felt almost timeless. He was surprised at how he felt upon waking; he felt  _younger_ than he'd felt in years, which was a weird thought. For once in his life, Dean had slept  _peacefully._

Dean thought of Dad calling him weak and pathetic for getting so scared of the dreams, for the effect they had on him. He'd  _tried_ to get stronger than that, but he'd had no idea  _how._

He'd always wondered how Dad could sleep so easily when he'd seen even more than Dean had; Dean really didn't want to believe that he was, in fact, just weaker than Dad. But now it made sense. Now Dean understood why Dad drank the nasty stinging liquid that made him act so stupid. It was Dad's secret to resting easy.

Dean had wanted to know how to rest easy for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene I mentioned in "The tough life might force you awakened". Sam and Dean grew up watching a parental figure drink too much, so I'd be stunned if that didn't impact them in some way, or if, as children, they were never tempted to try it.
> 
> I know John Winchester doesn't even appear in this one, but the way I see it, getting hammered in front of your kids constitutes an immediate parenting fail anyway.


End file.
